Shopping for Souvenirs With the Coolest Girl in Moscow

Despite the soaring divide between the haves and have-nots, the ever-volatile political situation, and the diving economy, in Russia, nationalist spirits are high. Even among those who have swerved off course from the strict social values associated with Russia, a tidal pull of allegiance to their country persists. The fringe subcultures proudly wear the white, red, and blue of their flag and embrace the not-so-stellar cultural stereotypes, swathing themselves in Adidas tracksuits and fat leather trenchcoats. Perhaps the most peculiar example of this phenomenon is Sima Saymon (also known as Serafima Soloviova), a societal outlier who deeply loves Russia. The 19-year-old, Moscow’s beautiful, rowdy matryoshka, is easy to spot: She resembles a smooth porcelain doll, entirely hairless, and walking with a heavy slouch. She’s also a local Instagram personality. Her feed, @saymonsima, is dotted with allegiance to gopnik style (the look of lower-class males), which often includes the tracksuit, pointy leather shoes, newsboy caps, and fake shearling coats. During the night, she’s a member and the face of the new rave-obsessed, vodka-chugging group of Russian youth that is responsible for skotoboinya—or slaughterhouse—a club party that features dark, hard techno laced with harsh, thunking bass and spliced with robotic, gibberish phrases. (Sima and her friends attend the events in early 1990s throwback looks of puffy Windbreakers, logo tees, and plastic sunglasses.)

But back to the point: Sima may not look typically patriotic, and certainly not straitlaced, but to a stranger, her Instagram curation hints otherwise, even if it is in jest: There is the occasional cameo of Russia’s President Vladimir Putin or a Russian Orthodox church. In this context, among selfies and sketches, it seems like a joke, but she assures me via email: She loves Russia. And actually, to prove it, she agrees to meet me to shop for souvenirs. We meet in Red Square, but no one has a working cell phone. Luckily, Sima stands out. She tells me her look—a leather coat, cropped trousers, fishnet tights, and loafers—is all from the hub of Moscow’s cooler-than-cool secondhand mecca Megastyle. We head to Arbat Street, a sterile Disneyland-style souvenir source. We trudge along sidewalks and under passageways—another sort of hidden trove for cheap tchotchkes. Almost everything has a reference to Putin—his visage overshadows more traditional pieces like pavlovsky shawls or valenki boots. There is a wide array of things the president’s face is tacked to: Key chains and pads of paper feature the leader’s glistening, orb-like head, while mugs feature his mug, typically wearing sunglasses, or shirtless, straddling a horse. The T-shirts are plainly political: He’s plastered across a tee that reads in Russian “Bravest of Them All,” while another depicts him as a cartoon, chastising other political leaders. But before Arbat Street: McDonald’s. Between bites, I learn a little bit more about Sima. Off-duty from her nightlife, Sima is a serious student in university, studying to be a child psychologist. She hails from a deeply religious family and graduated from a religious school. She harbors no desires toward America. “Everything is cool and Russia is shit,” she says. “But I love the shit.”

We leave McDonald’s and walk toward Arbat. There is still plenty of Putin paraphernalia, but there are some gems, like fluffy ushanka hats (a warning, Sima refers to as being made from something “worse than fake fur”), which go for about $6 or $7 apiece. There are soccer scarves for teams like FC Spartak Moscow and Zenit St. Petersburg—a $9 price tag—both much more approachably priced than the football-inspired items that labels like Gosha Rubchinskiy or Vetements are peddling. We leave the more contemporary souvenir shops and head to a store that sells linens. Filled with handmade school aprons and collars really “Made in Russia”—all precious, beautiful, expensive, and in very Soviet style (we walk out with a few embroidered napkins)—each with the letters of our first name on it. But before we part ways, we make one more stop to another cheap souvenir store. Sima asks me if I can buy her an “I Love Russia” pin. I do—and I end up getting one for myself, as well. Sometimes, despite it all, I love it, too.